Suspect
by helenofargos
Summary: Sgt. Donovan said something about Sherlock to John in "A Study In Pink"...does it hold any truth? Complete story line. Point of view goes between John and Sherlock.
1. The first murder

-Watson-

I smelled the body before I saw it. Sherlock all but ran to the sight, following distinct footprints in the snow. He was murmuring to himself unintelligibly. Occasionally, I caught a "no" or a "-when I-" but nothing sounded particularly unusual until he came to a halt and silence fell. The body of a woman lay behind a mattress, which had been leaned against the brick side of a suburban bridge.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" I asked, covering my nose with my coat's sleeve.

"This is impossible," was his only reply. A man in an officer's outfit approached the scene by way of a previously cleared path, which also contained Sherlock's and my footprints.

"Hello, Lestrade," I said to the man.

"Greetings, John. Can the two of you find anything strange about this? The snow seems to cover up details…or so Anderson says. We were going to take it back to the lab, bit I thought I'd give you a call first."

"Strange things…there are plenty of them here," Sherlock began. "Let's see," he flicked his magnifying lens out and looked at the victim's face. "She was muffled…probably chloroform was used to knock her out. She was strangled with a knitted scarf or sock, thus the crushed windpipe. The killer was fast because there is little sign of struggle."

"And, now, why don't you enlighten me with how you could conclude that?" Lestrade sighed.

"There are marks on her face from some sort of cloth being held up to her mouth and nose, restricting her breathing. Also, there are thin strands of yarn around her neck where the strangulation marks are."

"That's it?"

"Currently, yes."

"What about the stab wound?" Sherlock's expression went strange after that.

"Stab wound?"

"Yes. There is blood there, is there not?" Sherlock and I moved our heads to look at the woman's body at the same time. There was blood dripped on the snow. Sherlock moved her and, as soon as he did, we discovered more blood-soaked snow below her torso.

"Permission to remove her coat, DI?" Sherlock asked.

"Permission?" Lestrade replied. "What's permission to you? You always do what you bloody well please! Don't try and tell me that you're coming to your senses now."

"I thought I'd please you this once. Don't get used to it."

"Go on, then." Sherlock removed the woman's coat carefully, revealing a stab wound in her back, which had been miraculously sewn up, almost as if a surgeon had worked on her.

"The wound doesn't reach all of the way through, but it is deep enough to reach the heart. The killer probably knew what he was doing, but it seems like he rushed the stab. Whatever he was doing, it looks like he thought he had to hurry, but calmed down enough to put…some solution on." He smelled the wound, then said, "Silver nitrate, maybe? Gave him enough time to keep his hands semi-clean and sew the wound up. There really was no point in sewing it up, to tell the truth, but that does tell us that this person was meticulous about what he wanted to do.

"Now, the knife he used would be a pocket knife similar to this one," he said, pulling his own pocket knife to the DI and me. "Mainly because the bolster left a bruise on her skin in a similar shape to how this one would. The killer was a man, also, mostly because of the way his footsteps show that he walked. Also, the shoes are men's because of their width.

"There are no dragging marks in the snow, which meant that the killer was quite careless about how his tracks were covered. Maybe he wanted us to see them. I can't be certain, though. In any case, the fact that there are no drag marks means that the killer was strong in the upper body and carried the body out here."

Lestrade and I soaked up the information as Sherlock stood up and turned to me, saying, "John? Do you want a look?"

He had been more curious than he had expressed. Whatever he was letting me discover, he obviously didn't want to take credit for. Why he would ever do that, I wasn't sure.

"Ah, sure," I answered. Looking around the body, I found nothing. That is, until I hit detective-gold under the kicked up snow.

"The killer must have been hurrying at one point; there's a key here, under the snow."

"A key?" Lestrade asked. "Like what? A house key? A mail key?"

"House key," I replied, brushing it off, then handing it to him. "No labels on it, however."

Sherlock's expression hardened at the sight of the key. Something was off with him; I resolved to ask him about that later.

"Interesting," the DI said, placing the key in a bag marked "lab review" and continued, "but I must tell you that your time is up. Thank you, I'll keep you posted, Mr. Holmes."

"Certainly," the pale, stone-faced man replied, standing up and walking away from the two of us. I hurried along behind, attempting to catch up with him.

"What was all of that?" I asked.

"I'm simply being paranoid," he replied plainly.

"No, you never get like this."

"Get like what?" He gave me a half-offended, half-annoyed look.

"Never mind," I said, dismissing my worry for a moment. All that seemed important to Sherlock was getting out of the cold, taped-off area.

We exited our cab at a coffee shop. For once, we hadn't talked about the case while riding. Instead, Sherlock went into something about the reason that there were eyeballs in a questionable chemical substance (all in a covered jar) in the cabinet that I had tried desperately to get him to store food in, completely distracting me until we sat down at a table, I with my chamomile tea, Sherlock with his black coffee.

"Do you have my ideas as to why someone would kill this woman, ah, Samantha Rosetti?" I asked.

"She was a pretty public person, judging by the array of debit cards, library cards, and movie passes. Her wedding ring was absent, though. She'd lost her husband recently, judging by the fact that his photo was still in her wallet and that there were new, thin stress lines on her face."

"You look kind of, I don't know, haunted?" I suggested. His face turned into a look of frustration.

"You, John, seem to be convinced that there's something wrong."

"You said '_This is impossible,_' did you not?" I asked. "Tell me: did you know her or something?"

"No," Sherlock said with an irritated tone. He calmed down and lowered his voice to say, "I couldn't find my boots yesterday, remember? Also, I remembered leaving my scarf at that over-heated Chinese place down a few blocks from 221B. Do you know where I found it?" He fumbled around with his coffee mug's handle.

"Where?" I asked.

"I found it tied to the banister at the bottom of the stairs. I assumed that Ms. Hudson must have found it and washed it or something of the sort, but it seemed strange that I hadn't remembered that right."

"What are you implying?"

"Nothing yet," he said without emotion. "Let's be worried if another murder occurs."

That evening, we were reviewing information back in 221B Baker St. when, suddenly, my mobile rang, making both of us jump out of our seats. Lestrade was on the other end. He wanted us to hurry' I handed the phone to Sherlock.

"Where?" There was a pause then, "We'll be right over." He hung up, threw the phone to me, and, with a grin, said, "We've got another one. It's fresh."

The body was a man's. He was identified by Sherlock as a casual golfer with a drinking habit. This murder seemed unrelated to the previous one to me, at first. When Sherlock had finished looking the corpse over he described the events that led to his death.

"He's been dead for a while. Someone poisoned him as he was bar-hopping and he poured some of the poisoned drink into his hip flask, really saturating himself in it. He wandered along the road for a while, but stumbled over to this area, where he collapsed and died slowly. He probably didn't even know what was happening."

"Any idea what he was poisoned with?" Lestrade asked, his breath billowing through the air in a cloud.

"Smells like cyanide. I can't be sure, though." Sherlock's expression looked almost bored for a moment. He commented, "I was hoping for something more interesting than that, but that's what it seems like it is."

I was silently signaled to look at the body for myself at that point. I discovered a pocket knife resembling the one that Sherlock had shown us at the last murder sight. When we opened it, we discovered that it was covered in dry blood. The man had no stab wound on him, however. This was when Sherlock began looking more interested. He remained silent, however, which made me curious as well.

As we were walking away from the sight, Sherlock said, "John, it is connected to the other murder, but I don't know how. This man isn't the killer, I know that. Only the blade of the knife was dirty: everything else had been wiped clean. Something is different about these murders."

"What do you mean by _different_?"

"No fingerprints on anything material, so far. If this man's case has the same problem, they can't deny that the two are connected." I sighed and looked back to where the body was.

"Who said that there were no fingerprints?"

"Lestrade," Sherlock replied, "and Anderson. The test results came back as clean."

"I see," I answered, unsure of what else there was to do. This newest victim could have encountered fifty people while he was going from bar to bar; there was nothing that Scotland Yard could go off of other than the poison used to kill him, if the knife was clean.

We left and headed back to 221B. On the way there, Sarah called me on my mobile, asking me to go to dinner and a film. I said yes, for the sake of getting away from the flat. Sherlock told me he'd stay back to run tests on the poison used and eat on his own. I doubted that the later was true (Ms. Hudson would surely give him company whether he wanted it or not) but I let it be. Sarah hadn't completely blamed me for our stressful capture-and-escape act the previous month, and that was what mattered.

We entered the flat. Ms. Hudson was curious as to where I was going when I was leaving again. When I said that I was going on a date, she seemed surprised. She seemed convinced that Sherlock and I were "together" still. It drove me crazy. Can men not be flat mates without people assuming that they are "together" anymore? I left the flat, turning back only to lock the door.


	2. Dead Ends and Pot Pie

-Holmes-

John left to go on his boring little "date" with the woman who he worked with at the hospital, Sarah. As far as I could tell, there was nothing strange or peculiar about her (for a doctor, that is). What was the point of that? Really?

I had laid the information from Lestrade all over the floor and coffee table so that I could look at the picture as a whole. There was almost nothing to go off of. I still had my set of vials next to me for testing the poison from the second murder victim's hip flask, and, within the next five minutes, had managed to cover those up with papers as well. About a half-hour into my studying, Ms. Hudson called up to the flat asking if I needed anything to eat because she was fixing dinner.

"No, thank you," I called back.

"You need some meat on those bones! I won't fix it for you, bit you _will_ eat something!" She called back in a chipper voice.

"I'm fine, Ms. Hudson, thank you."

"Oh, come down, will you?" I sighed and sat everything down to go downstairs. She had been fixing up the downstairs hall and…well, the cleanliness just bothered me. I kept John's and me flat very hazardous-looking so that it'd fell like home. No matter how much John tried to get me to "clean up," I wouldn't do such a thing. The smell of pot pie suddenly distracted me. Things like food don't entice me as the do other people, but I hadn't eaten all day and, well, it smelled _really_ nice.

I floated into the kitchen and looked at the table, trying to conceal my hunger. Ms. Hudson was the motherly type who, though she tried not to be, really tried to look after me (usually via John). She eyeballed me as I walked into the doorway. As she turned back around to face the kitchen counter, she said, "_You_ haven't been sleeping."

"Nah, but I'm fine."

"You were stumbling down those stairs, Sherlock, dear. There are bags under your eyes, too." I sighed and moved over to the table.

"Can I help?" She seemed taken aback by the fact that I had offered to help (her hair, tied back in a bun, lifted with her eyebrows raising, her pinkie and ring finger lifted up as well, as she always dows when she's surprised.

"Help?" she asked. "Well, sure you can/ Take the silverware out of the drawer nearest to the window; give each place one fork and one butter knife."

"Three places?"

"There are four, Sherlock." I looked back at the table, blinking hard. I must have lost too much sleep because there, indeed, were four places at the table. I counted out four of each utensil and put two at each place, trying to ignore the fact that Ms. Hudson was rearranging them as subtlu as she could as she followed behind me.

"Who else is coming?" I asked, no theories in mind yet.

"An old friend and her daughter are coming to visit from out of town," she replied. Her body language and the tone of her voice said that she liked these people and didn't get to see them too often.

"Please refrain from acting…_too_ you, if you can," she continued.

"You mean act like other people?" I asked, trying not to sound disappointed.

"If that's possible, yes, dear: I wouldn't want for them to think ill of you."

"But that's _boring_!" I exclaimed, feeling a slight whine seep into my voice.

"Please, Sherlock?" Her expression told me that she really meant it. I sighed and silently agreed to the unfortunate request; I helped put the dishes out on the table.

The doorbell rang. Ms. Hudson went to answer the door, leaving me to finish moving food and miscellaneous toppings and utensils to the table. I could only hope that I was doing things correctly.

Talking commenced in the hall, cheery greetings flooded into the doorway and seeped into the kitchen along with the cool air of Baker Street. The three women came into the dining area as I set the pot pie out on the table.

"And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He's a resident in one of the flats." I smiled pleasantly (fake) at them. One was a young woman, about a year younger than me, who had few stress lines, blonde hair (which was set loose, scrolling down her shoulders in relatively straight lines), blue-and-brown eyes, a slightly long yet accented face, six feet in height, thin and muscular arms, and wore a dark, knitted top and a (new) pair of flared blue jeans. Her boots clicked and clacked against the linoleum floor. I recognized her almost immediately: a girl who went to my secondary school.

The other woman was about Ms. Hudson's age (maybe a bit older) and was also relatively tall with dirty-blonde hair, hazel eyes, more stress lines, an accented, squarer face, less0than fit muscles, and wore a turquoise tunic top with brown trousers with less-noisy black boots: the woman's mother.

"How do you do, Mr. Holmes?" asked the young blonde. Welsh, as I remembered. Cardiff, to be exact.

"Laura Copper: charmed," I replied.

"Oh, so you two know each other, then?" Ms. Hudson asked. I relaxed my expression and replied.

"I'm not sure if you remember: secondary school?" Laura thought for a short while, then seemed to remember.

"Ah, yes. I thought I recognized your name," she commented. "I never really got to know you back then." _Not that I really let anyone_, I thought.

"In any case," she continued. "This is my mother, Beth." I tried to be "normal" and "boring" by smiling slightly and shaking the woman's hand.

"Pleasure," I replied.

"He'll be joining us for dinner tonight. His flat mate usually forces him into the kitchen; it's my turn now." Ms. Hudson laughed, joined by smiles from the other two. I smiled, noting the truth in this statement.

"Got a flat mate too, then?" Beth asked. As she did so, Ms. Hudson ushered us over to the table to sit down. Laura shifted herself, while sitting in the wooden chair, showing that she had something important either in a pocket or her waistband of her trousers. I made note.

"Yeah," I replied, returning to my normal expression. "I had to get a friend to help pay the rent. He wasn't doing so well, himself, so it worked out in both for both of us."

"It's been so long since we were last here," Laura stated, directing her attention to both Ms. Hudson and me at the same time. "Which flat's yours?"

"Oh, he's up in 221B," Ms. Hudson replied for me. Laura's prying made me curious, but I refrained from saying anything about it.

"What do you two do for a living?" I asked. "Family business?"

"Yes, actually," Beth replied. "How did you know?"

"Both of your pairs of boots read _Copper Cardiff_ on the side of the heels. You're in shoe manufacturing, then?" I refrained from saying anymore.

"Very good," Beth mused, an intrigued look sprung across her face.

"Sherlock's…very good at picking things up," Ms. Hudson said, shooting me a warning glare, one which I had known was coming my way. I breathed in, then out, remembering how tired I had been earlier. The conversation distracted me, however.

"What do you do for a living, then, Mr. Holmes?" Laura asked, genuinely intrigued.

"I am…self-employed. I am not getting very far in the business currently, I would love to, but it's not really up to me."

"That is no answer," Laura muttered, quiet enough that only I picked it up.

"That's too bad, then!" Beth said before eating a forkful of pot pie, which had miraculously appeared in our dishes. Come to think of it, when did Ms. Hudson sit down? I blinked hard and took one forkful of the food, consuming it slowly at first, then going at my normal sped-up process. After some small chat and gossip was distributed between the three women, I found that I had grown tired of eating before everyone else.

"Now, you're just bones, aren't you?" Beth asked. "Don't get out in the sun too often, do you? Maybe you should meet us out at the shops tomorrow? There's supposed to be lovely weather for the rest of the week."

"I get out enough, but thank you." I tried to be polite, bit I could hear the resistance in my own voice.

"Oh, Sherlock, come off it," Ms. Hudson interjected. "You need to get out with ladies more often. The shops and galleries are just darling!" I refrained from sighing and felt my eyebrows furrow and my hands press together in my "thinking pose," as John calls it, tapping the tips of my fingers against my lower lip. Ms. Hudson would be disappointed if I flat out said "no," but if I gracefully backed out, she might cut me some slack. After a second of thought, I said, "I'm catching up on some sleep tomorrow. I really need to relax, honestly. If I get a good night's sleep, though, I might be able to do something…" I then muttered, "…like look at shops…"

"If your rest or lack thereof gets in the way, it's okay. I suppose that we can't necessarily blame you for being a man, in any case," Laura reasoned.

"I'm simply…I just don't get shops," I admitted, my normal self confessing to my lack of normality. "They seem uninteresting for the most part."

"You can't even get interested in a grocery store!" Ms. Hudson commented, half-jokingly. "I suppose you're lucky that John and I are ever around!"

I raised my eyebrows and said, "Well, I suppose, yes." The three women found this to be funny. I wasn't sure that it was, but I played along.

"Well ,there are more interesting and important things out there-"

"Than food?" Beth asked.

"Frankly, yes," I replied simply. I was stating the truth. Laura's gaze remained on me. I avoided her gaze, so as not to intrigue her more. What did I remember about her, exactly? In-crowd, avoided me for the first two years of secondary school but looked at me curiously in my last two years…she was always on the higher-end of fashion and trend-setting, had a connection to almost everyone in the school, and rarely was without a boyfriend. She had registered as "typical" in my mind, back then.

The three women continued talking until they finished their meals; I left about a third of the serving I was given on the plate in front of me, uninterested in eating more than what was absolutely necessary; it's the brain that matters, really.

When the Coppers were offered a seat in Ms. Hudson's sitting room, I made my way towards the stairs leading up to the flat.

"It was nice seeing you again," Laura said with a smile from the kitchen (helping put dishes away: kind and generous to family friends).

"I'm sure," I murmured, throwing her a forced smile to match the one she had worn throughout most of dinner. She seemed to get the message and turned back to what she was doing.

Once I got into the flat, I shut and locked the door behind me. Collapsing into the chair by the hearth, I relaxed. _Finally_, I didn't have to act anymore. Nothing was forced. That had been so excruciatingly frustrating, acting like a boring person.

Just as I was about to drift towards my own bedroom, I heard a knock on the door downstairs. I leapt into action, flinging the door to the flat open and all but flying down the stairs, beating Ms. Hudson to the door by whole seconds. The knock had been four tapped out at a fast pace twice in a row: Lestrade's code for "urgent". I opened the door.

"DI. Leads?" I asked.

"None," he said back (fidgeting his hands in his pockets, tense in the leg he usually bounces when he's impatient). "There's been a new murder, though."

"Where?" I felt my face light up, but smothered the expression just as fast as it had appeared.

"Follow me," Lestrade sighed, turning back towards his cruiser.

"I'll grab my coat. One moment!" I shut the door, ran up the stairs, snatched my coat and scarf off of the rack, and ran back down to the door (locking the flat door as I went).

"What's up?" Laura asked, attempting to not laugh at my mad dash.

"Told you business was low, didn't I?" I replied. She raised a curious eyebrow at me.

"The game's back on," I said, smiling. I ran out the door, shutting it behind me. _Goodbye, boring flat._


End file.
